Death of a Domestic Diva (6 page)

I shut my bedroom door and—never mind my usual habit of leaving doors unlocked—locked it. Then I put my quilt down on my bed, and the petals on my dresser. And finally, I took the spare kitchen chair I keep in a corner in my bedroom and rammed the back of it up under the doorknob.

Sound extreme?

Well, here I was, in my apartment, with a woman who claimed to be Tyra Grimes . . . who was now in my living room/kitchenette singing with gusto and only a little off-key,
“The hills are alive with the sound of music
,” while making lots of other loud noises. Banging sounds. Cabinets opening and shutting.

What to do, what to do? I could call the police—but if that really was Tyra Grimes, I'd be forever embarrassed. Of course, if it wasn't, I might be forever dead if this woman—who seemed a lot perkier and older and smaller than the Tyra on TV—turned out to be a deranged Tyra wanna-be and slipped into some dark side of her personality . . . maybe she was a Tyra devotee who'd tried unsuccessfully one too many times to whip up faux chiffon window toppers using just tissue paper and string, and she'd slipped over the edge, and any minute she'd break into my bedroom armed with a sharpened spatula . . .

There was a loud thump.

Something was being dragged across my floor, with a scraping sound. Tyra had launched into a throaty rendition of,
“O-O-O-Oklahoma where the wind
. . .” I guess Tyra was a domestic diva in more ways than one.

I ran into my closet, flipped on the light, and shut the door. One more shut door between me and Tyra/the Tyra wanna-be couldn't hurt. I pulled off my shoes, then peeled off my socks and tossed them down the laundry chute, which I have in my closet and which goes down to a basket in my office/storage area below (one of the perks of living above your own laundromat). I wiggled my toes—letting them enjoy a few seconds of airy freedom—then pulled on my Tweety Bird slippers. Somehow, putting them on made me feel calmer. I'd just go out, talk to this woman, maybe ask for some identification . . .

Thump.
Bang
. Tyra crooning,
“Don't cry for me, Ar-gen
-
ti-i-i-n-aaaa
. . .” I could hear it even inside my closet.

I opened the closet door, dashed out, grabbed the handset to my phone, and ran back into my closet, planning to call the Red Horse Motel and see if Tyra's assistant had really checked in. It wasn't as though so many guests deluged the motel that the owners—Luke and Greta Rhinegold—wouldn't remember her.

As I dialed the number from memory—I do the motel's linens once a week—I toed open the shiny metal door to my oversized laundry chute. I'd installed the super-deluxe model, big enough to let my bed's queen-sized comforter sluice down easily.

Greta answered on the third ring.

“What? We already have an ad in the Yellow Pages,” she crowed, when I asked her if a Paige had checked in tonight. “Not that it does us any good, being out here in the boonies . . .”

Greta's a little hard of hearing.

I repeated my question, raising my voice, partly for Greta's sake and partly because Tyra's singing had gotten louder.

This time, Greta realized who was calling and what I was asking. “Oh, yes—Paige Morrissey. Yes, she checked in tonight. She said to tell you when you called not to worry and she'll meet you in the morning. This some long-lost friend?”

Greta kept her voice casual, doing her best to keep her curiosity in check, but I knew she was dying for an explanation. Everyone knows I grew up my whole life in Paradise. And everyone knows everyone I know, because they all know each other. Another fact of small town life. A stranger claiming to know me would definitely raise curiosity.

“Something like that,” I said to Greta, then thanked her, disconnected, and slid down to the floor.

Oh, God.

Apparently, I really did have Tyra Grimes in my living room.

Now, there's a funny thing about having what you want to happen actually happen, after so many times of having what you want mostly just rinse on down the drain like dirty wash water.

See, I'd waited and waited to hear from Tyra Grimes. And now here she was—in person. So it sure seemed like I was getting my wish to come true . . . like I might really be able to pull off getting some free, and positive, publicity for Paradise.

So on the one hand, my heart was aflutter with hope.

On the other hand, I didn't trust what was happening. It seemed just a little odd that Tyra would show up unannounced. It seemed even more odd that she would want to come two days before her crew arrived. At most, I'd be on for five minutes. I couldn't believe someone as famous and important and busy as Tyra Grimes would want to talk with me for two whole days about how to take care of mustard versus beer stains. This was wholly unlike what I'd imagined.

So, when Tyra knocked on my bedroom door and called, “Josie? Can we talk for a moment?” I followed my first instinct—escape.

I opened the laundry chute door, stuck my head in. Nope, that way wouldn't work. I lay down on my back, hooked my leg over the rim of the chute, and butt-scooted forward.

Nope, that way wasn't going to work, either.

For a minute, I just stayed there like that, trying to think. No brilliant escape plans, after all. I was going to have to stay and deal with Tyra. I'd wanted her here, and now she was here and I didn't know what to do with her. She'd apparently moved away from my bedroom door because now I could only faintly hear her plaintive warbling of,
“Send in the clowns
. . .”

I punched in Winnie's number. No answer. The answering machine kicked in. I hung up, suddenly remembering that Sunday nights, Winnie and her husband go out square dancing up in Masonville. They'd probably be sashaying left and right till all hours of the night. How do you explain to an answering machine that a major media star has responded to your letter by showing up and basically moving in with you for a few days? You don't. So I hung up without leaving a message.

For a few minutes, I just lay on my closet floor. I squeezed my eyes shut, trying to figure out what to do. And then I realized that my apartment had gotten very, very quiet.

I tried to pull my feet out of the laundry chute so I could sit up properly. My right foot came out okay. My left foot was stuck, though, at an odd angle in the chute. I'd stuck my leg in too far.

I bucked my butt up and down in a frenzied effort to loosen my left foot. I'd never look at the little mousetraps I have back in the storeroom of my laundromat in quite the same way. In fact, maybe I'd replace them with something more humane—or more mouse-mane. Like little silk beds and pillows and little silver plates of cheese.

I rested for a second—then did a combo half-twist-and-lunge. And my woman-eating super-deluxe laundry chute finally spat me half way out of my closet.

A few minutes later, I had my ear to my bedroom door. Still just silence. I gulped, moved the chair away from the door, and slowly opened it.

I limped out—the woman-eating laundry chute had done a number on my ankle—then stared in shock at what was supposed to be my apartment.

The furniture—instead of being lined up against the walls—was at a jaunty angle beneath the window. The beige curtains that had hung limply on either side of the window had been taken down and rehung, now as a scarf swag, the two halves joined with an arty rosette knot. The curtain rod was gone. The swag hung over two metal scarf holders—except on closer examination, I saw they were serving forks, taken from my kitchenette, the tines stabbed into the drywall, the ends bent up to form the hooks.

Books had been artfully stacked under the lamps on the end tables. My pale yellow throw pillows—usually wadded into either end of the couch—were now prettily turned so they were diamonds rather than squares. And Tyra had found a black magic marker and quickly sketched orchids on them.

My magazines were now on the coffee table in two stacks, but twisted, to make twin spirals. And on top of and around each spiral were a menagerie of origami animals, created, I could see, from pages torn from the latest issue of
The Star Reporter
.

And, curled up on my couch—sleeping peacefully, snoring softly—was Tyra Grimes.

I stared at her for a long moment. And then I did the only thing that I could think to do. I went to my bedroom and retrieved my maimed quilt and spread it over her.

Remember Mrs. Oglevee—my eighth-grade history teacher? The one who made me write 100 times over, “I'm proud to be a Paradisite” when I shared my theory about the true history of Paradise? Who lectured me all the while about how that very pride should come from Paradise being on the Ohio map every single year since 1844?

If it hadn't been for me dreaming that night about old Mrs. Oglevee, maybe things would have turned out all right. Or at least, a little better. Maybe, if I hadn't dreamed about her, I wouldn't have made the phone call later, that led to Billy getting thrown out of his apartment and moving to the Red Horse, and we would have just one murder in Paradise later on, instead of two. Maybe. The saying “Hindsight is 20/20” isn't really true. Sometimes, it's just as hard to look back and see what you should have done as it is to look ahead and see what you should do.

Anyway, after tucking Tyra Grimes in, I found myself in my kitchen, staring at the super-large family-sized jar of peanut butter in the cabinet. Then I found myself carrying the jar and a spoon into my bedroom.

And then I started eating the peanut butter.

Oh, Lord—Tyra Grimes, really here? And me? On her show?

Now, don't get me wrong. I know my stains. I was nervous about the show, but not panicked. Not too panicked, anyway.

I ate some more peanut butter. I read once that longlasting protein counteracts panic. So I thought, if I just have a big helping of peanut butter, and kind of let it work overnight, I'll wake up in the morning unpanicked.

But even after two spoonfuls, I still had the nagging sense that something wasn't right. For one thing, Tyra wanting to come here two days before filming. What in the world would I do with her for two days?

I ate more peanut butter.

And what about this Paige Morrissey? I didn't know a thing about her.

A double-dip into the peanut butter . . .

I ate peanut butter until my jar was empty. Then I licked off the inside of the lid. I put the jar and lid and spoon on my nightstand, then tried to read
The Idiot's Guide to Home Decorating and Style in General
. Somewhere in the middle of the chapter on “How To Accessorize With Candles Without Appearing Either Tacky or Ghoulish,” I dozed off.

And then, Mrs. Oglevee showed up in my dreams.

There she was, at the foot of my bed, looking just like she always had. Tiny. In a frilly, prim pink blouse and a straight navy skirt, and brown orthopedic shoes. Except now she was carrying a large wooden spoon. And wearing a starched apron that was crisp and white, not a stain on it, so I couldn't even make cleaning recommendations to show how far I've progressed since junior high.

To make things even worse, Mrs. Oglevee—who's been dead six years now—was wearing a Tyra Grimes wig of auburn curls. The wig was askew, so one ear stuck out and one was hidden.

Risen-from-the-dead, Tyra-wigged Mrs. Oglevee shook her wooden spoon at me and squeaked, “Well, Miss Toadfern, I can see you haven't changed a bit.”

“Yes, I have. I'm a business owner. And a stain expert. And—” I sat straight up in my bed, in my dream, at least—in real life, I reckon I was sweating and tossing and turning. “Why are you dressed like that, anyhow?”

Mrs. Oglevee snorted. “Don't you remember when I substituted in home ec? When Mrs. Mendenball was off on maternity leave? You were even more pathetic at home ec than you were in history. You sewed right through your thumb, trying to finish up the class project, what was it, a skirt, a muumuu, a—”

“Vest,” I muttered. “It was a vest.”

“Don't interrupt me! You always were an insolent child.” She licked her lips. “You sewed right through your thumb and broke off the needle! Do you realize the expense of sewing machine needles? Of course not! You were always bad at economics, too. You only have the laundromat because your aunt and uncle had no one else to leave it to! If it weren't for that, you'd probably be broke, living in the streets, homeless in Paradise . . .”

“What do you know? You're only here because . . .” Well, why was she here? My tummy ached. “Because I ate too much peanut butter!”

At the words “peanut butter” she shrank back for a second. But she recovered and hollered, “I'm telling you, Josie Toadfern, you need to call this whole thing off with Tyra Grimes! Just send her home, or you'll end up regretting it!”

Now, this was too much. The ghost of Mrs. Oglevee, also against Tyra's visit?

I groaned. “Oh . . . my tummy hurts. I wish I hadn't eaten so much of that peanut butter . . .”

Mrs. Oglevee yelped before I could finish my moaning. What was her problem with peanut butter?

But she was starting in on me again. “Do you really think you can handle yourself on national TV? Quick—what's the proper presoak for grass stains on denim?”

I moaned.

“You've never been good at thinking on your feet.” She cackled. “So before you embarrass yourself and Paradise, send Tyra home, tell her you're sorry, you just can't do it. . .”

I tuned her out, because my brain was starting to itch with the memory of Mrs. Oglevee substituting for home ec, and the annual home economics eighth grade tea, and how Mr. Humphries, the junior high principal, was the honored guest, and how Mrs. Oglevee had assigned me to make peanut butter cookies, because, she said, even Josie Toadfern couldn't mess those up—while all the other girls got to make fancy little cakes and fancy little sandwiches and fancy lime Jell-O salad.

Yet somehow, I used baking soda in the peanut butter cookies when I was supposed to use baking powder. Or maybe I used baking powder instead of baking soda? In any case, when Mr. Humphries took the first bite of peanut butter cookie—because he got to sample everything first at the eighth grade home economics tea—he started coughing and choking and wheezed out peanut butter cookie crumbs all over Mrs. Oglevee's face.